


Seven Days in April

by Lemon-Bar (Revenant)



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Lemon-Bar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post S5 one-shot. Brian Kinney is not a 'flowers' type of guy. He doesn't give them, ever, and no one has ever had the audacity to give them to him. At least, until that morning in April when he walks into work to find a hideous little flower arrangement on his desk. Naturally, he makes it quite clear that Cynthia is to shoot anyone bearing flowers on sight should they endeavor to accost him again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days in April

**Author's Note:**

> **Read @[ LiveJournal ](http://britin-manor.livejournal.com/17608.html)**

**When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.**

― Ernest Hemingway, _A Moveable Feast_

 

** Day One: **

Brian needs a new car. 

He decides this partway through his thirty minute commute to work, inching along the highway because however sleek and powerful and just plain fucking _hot_ the 'vette is, it guzzles gas and has shit traction. His thirty-minute commute is slipping well past fifty-five minutes because spring has happily skipped the 'April showers' and gone straight to April _deluge_. It doesn't matter how fast he sets the windshield wipers, he still can barely see where he's going.

It's not the first time he's considered getting a new car, and if he's honest with himself the only reason he has for putting it off this long is that he doesn't want Michael to see his new ride and accuse him of 'boyfriend replacement therapy'. Again.

But one year seems long enough. Safe enough. 

Maybe it's time.

"There you are," Ted says the moment Brian strides into Kinnetik. "I was beginning to think you spun off the road on your way into work and died in a fiery car wreck. You look like shit, by the way."

Brian puts on his smarmiest, least sincere smile and keeps walking in the direction of his office. " _Good morning,_ Theodore," he greets as Ted falls into step. "Always a pleasure to start my day with your radiant, angelic face." Stopping by his office, Brian turns around and says, "Please go away now."

"I'm serious, Brian. We have figures to go over."

"Buh-bye!" Brian closes the door in Ted's face, sighing the moment he's alone in his office. Propping his dripping umbrella against the wall, Brian curses at his suit pants, drenched to mid-calf and likely ruined. There is, of course, more than one spare suit in his office but that isn't the point.

The point is, he's late for work, and the drive sucked, and that wouldn't have happened if he had a different car. Then he wouldn't have been confined in his vehicle with nothing but the news to distract his thoughts. Brian drops his briefcase onto the glass coffee table, already loosening his tie as he strides to his bathroom intent on changing.

The door to the bathroom is halfway closed when he stops, opens it again, stepping backward into his office and cautiously, allows his eyes to flicker to the right, to his desk and the _thing_ that he _thought_ he'd seen but could not possibly be there.

Christ. It _is_ there. Sitting on his desk in plain view, no less. 

He marches out of his office, tie hanging loose around his neck and shirt half unbuttoned, launching a general inquiry to everyone within earshot, at a volume he trusts to carry well to the other side of the room: "What the fuck is on my desk?"

"What do you mean?" Ted asks, scurrying over like the little gossip-monger that he is. "What's on your desk?" The man actually stands on tiptoe and bobs from side to side, trying to see over Brian's shoulders.

"That's what I want to know," Brian says, tongue firmly in cheek. "Cynthia!"

The 'thing' on Brian's desk is, in fact, a floral arrangement. That, at least, is perfectly self-evident.

There is a plain glass cylindrical-shaped vase out of which is sticking a veritable spectrum of color. Tight-packed, bell-shaped hyacinth blossoms of, quite literally, _every_ color of the rainbow, their stems clipped to a precise and matching length and tilted at an angle in the vase so the individual blooms look like a single entity, one giant multi-colored atrocity. Through the glass of the vase Brian sees what looks like a particularly long twig binding the many stems tightly together.

"It looks like the Pride flag," Ted sputters. "Who would send you flowers?"

Cynthia pushes through the door, a bounce in her step and a particularly chipper smile on her face. Fucking spring makes everyone impossible. "You bellowed, master?" Cynthia asks, cheekily and entirely too blasé for Brian's tastes.

He points at his desk. "Explain this." 

"They came this morning. I put them in your office. I think they're pretty," Cynthia says with a shrug. Like it's no big deal.

Brian narrows his eyes. "Who sent them?"

"There was no note." She shrugs again. "The delivery guy, although ridiculously cute, was entirely unhelpful when I asked. He just said the flowers were for a 'Mister Brian Kinney' and he had to make absolutely certain they reached the intended recipient. I assured him that I would put them right on your desk where they couldn't be missed."

There was _no way_ the flowers could be missed _wherever_ Cynthia had decided to put them. They were bright and garish and large and Brian didn't even _like_ hyacinths.

Ted looks up from where he has been examining the vase. "She's right, there's no note. Maybe they're from a client?"

"Theodore," Brian says, rolling his eyes. "Kinnetik is a highly reputable advertising agency that deals with an increasing number of national accounts, each of which is grossing a not _in_ significant net income. If a client is going to send me a token of their appreciation it's going to be a particularly fine bottle of wine or a fancy dinner or just about anything _other_ than a hideously exuberant _floral arrangement_."

"Geez. Sorry."

"Cynthia." Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. He tries to think nice, soothing thoughts. Pretty much anything that doesn't involve hideous flowers delivered to his place of _work_. "Get rid of them, please."

She's shaking her head at him even as she steps forward to retrieve the vase. "Who knew flowers could make a person so cranky." 

"If you don't want them…." Ted starts to offer.

"Cynthia, you can have them," Brian says, cutting smoothly over Ted's request.

"Sweet. Free flowers." She picks up the hyacinths and trots them out of the office, ignoring Ted's jealous gaze as she goes.

"Oh, and Cynthia?" Brian raises his voice to make certain she hears him. "If that florist, or any other florist for that matter, tries to deliver flowers to me again, you're to turn them away. Understood?"

"Sure thing, boss!" she calls back.

"Ted," he says, before the man can assault him again with the daily figures or, alternately, escape his office altogether. "I'm buying a new car."

"Uh," Ted says. Brilliantly, as usual. "Okay? Do you want me to come and help you pick it out?"

Brian makes a face. "No," he says. "You're my accountant. I want you to shift money around or do whatever it is you do. It's going to be expensive."

"What kind of car are you getting?"

Brian drops into his chair and rolls behind his desk. "I don't know yet."

"Well then, how do you know it's going to be expensive?"

"Theodore," Brian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. " _Please_."

"Right," Ted says. "I'll leave you to it."

One year ago, Justin left for New York, Mel and Linds ran to Canada, and Brian became, apparently, the only homosexual single man left in Pittsburgh. He also made his unofficial title of King of Liberty Avenue quite literal, by buying up a lot of the property in the area. After the bombing, it was going cheap. 

"Christ, Brian," Michael had said, standing in the skeletal remains of Babylon. "What are you gonna do?"

Brian had thrown his arm around his friend's shoulder. "We can rebuild it," he'd said. "We have the technology." Which is precisely what he'd done, starting with Babylon, and then growing from there.

The more successful Kinnetik became, the more money Brian made, the more things he acquired and a lot of what he acquired was property. The house, though, that is something else. Even if Deb and Mikey and everyone else keep waiting for him to sell it and start weeping inconsolably into handkerchiefs, eating buckets of ice cream and watching nothing but crap romance movies.

Brian Kinney has an empire, it only makes sense he should keep his castle. 

Even if his prince has run off to make his own fortune.

He's decorated it and filled it with furniture and it's home now, more than the loft was, or ever has been. There are spare rooms for Gus and Jenny Rebecca when they come to visit; there are rugs on the floors and art on the walls, some of which is Justin's. There's even a greenhouse attached to the east wing that Brian converted into an art studio and filled with blank canvases and empty easels, ready and waiting because if there is one thing Brian knows, it is that this on-again off-again thing he has with Justin is epic and eternal and will, no matter how it looks at any given moment, never end.

At least, he hopes it won't.

Booting up his computer, Brian flips through some of the paperwork Cynthia has left on his desk and then glances up. He realizes his mistake the moment his gaze focuses because at Kinnetik, they don't work in a box and they don't believe in walls, so Brian's office has glass-walls and Cynthia's desk is directly in front, the hideous little floral arrangement now sitting front and center, perfectly within his line of sight.

The bright colors make him think of Pride weekend years ago, after Chris Hobbes but before the Pink Posse. He remembers sitting in the Diner all together, Emmett talking about celebrating: _"Some people take it to the streets"_ and Ted's immediate answer, _"Other people take it to the sheets"._

He remembers Justin, so young, still half-lost like he was for so long after the prom: _"Go find a stud, ask him to dance."_

Remembers the suspicious look the blond had given him when Brian had reached out and caught his arm: _"Hey, stud. Want to dance?"_

Remembers the shy, hopeful glimmer in those blue eyes when Brian had added: _"I promise you won't forget this one."_

"Hey," Cynthia says, opening the door after a quick double-knock. "You've got a client coming in at ten."

"I know," he says, dragging his eyes away. "I want Tony in there for the pitch, he's done some good work on this one."

"I'll let him know." She stands there in his door, looking at him with an assessing stare. "Are you okay?"

"Of course."

She sighs. "I mean it."

Nodding, Brian flips one file closed and opens another. He says, "So do I."

___________________________________________

By early afternoon the sun is out, the streets perfectly dry, Kinnetik has a new client and Brian calls it a day, leaves early and goes to the Mercedes dealership to celebrate spring.

It's perfectly normal to celebrate the change of a season with a new car. If Michael asks, Brian will simply explain: "Mikey, this is what people with ridiculous amounts of money _do_. Mine and Justin's relationship, or _lack_ of relationship, has nothing to do with my shiny new Indium grey luxury vehicle, with almond leather interior and brown ash wood trim."

Ted, ever-practical, takes the keys to the 'vette with a certain amount of glee and asks, "Are you going to sell it?"

Brian makes a face. "I am not _selling_ the 'vette. I have a three-car garage. This," he gestures proudly at his new Mercedes, "is car number two." Then he narrows his eyes at Ted. "You're driving the 'vette back to the house. Don't start getting ideas."

"Please," Ted scoffs. "I wouldn't own a car like this. It's totally impractical. Plus, my dick's big enough, thanks."

"Has Blake been lying to you again?" 

The drive back to the house takes less than fifteen minutes. Sure, it's not rush hour and the weather is ideal, but Brian chooses to take it as a sign.

 

** Day Two: **

For lunch, Brian drives his shiny new car over to Liberty Avenue and parks it directly in front of the large windows of the Diner. 

When he gets out, he takes a moment to fiddle with his sunglasses because he knows that the Gang is inside, gawking, and he wants to put on a good show.

"Holy shit, Brian!" Michael cries, meeting him on the sidewalk, the rest of the Gang not far behind. "This is like, one of the most expensive cars in the world!" It's the kind of exaggeration that only the gay son of an Italian and a drag queen could deliver, but Mikey says it with his usual doe-eyed honesty.

"Well," Brian says, with a shrug, "I did get the premium package…" he begins detailing his car's assets starting with the genuine leather, hand-stitched interior, Bang and Olufsen surround sound speakers, and onboard command computer system, and somehow winds up talking about the complete rear-seat entertainment package, the six-disc DVD changer and heated seats.

"Goodness," Emmett says. "I remember the days when a quick fuck in a car was simple and utilitarian, if a bit cramped. But I suppose at your age you need all the gadgets you can get to keep the trick entertained."

Brian narrows his eyes, but Michael is entirely excited by the features, "Jennie and Gus are gonna _love_ this!"

As the excitement dies down and the group heads back inside, Brian is stopped by Debbie, smiling at him brightly, before patting his cheek fondly. "I'm proud of you, honey."

"For what?"

Her expression changes quickly from a smile bright with what looks suspiciously like pride to the sarcastic smirk and  raised eyebrow with which Brian is far more familiar. "For what," she mimics, then rolls her eyes. "Your Jeep was a fuckmobile, Brian, and don't you pretend otherwise." Not that he would. He has very fond memories of that Jeep, which include but are not limited to driving the thing through the showroom window to make a point. 

Debbie continues, "It was a fuckmobile that you eventually replaced with that corvette, which was a dick on wheels. But this," she nods at the car, the sedan that can comfortably sit four. "This is something else."

Brian finds himself blurting, "It's fully outfitted. Cost me over a million bucks."

Debbie pats his cheek like she's humoring him. "I know it did, baby."

He orders a coffee because suddenly his stomach is feeling a little off-balance. Or maybe that's just him, and sits back and listens as everyone bitches about their romantic partners and their work, and thinks about how he really has nothing to add. He loves his work and it's never been going better. 

As for romantic partners…

"Uh," says a bronzed Italian God with black ruffled hair and striking green eyes. "Brian Kinney?"

Brian raises his eyebrow; eyes flicking down and then back up the tall lean frame appreciatively, smiling over his cup of coffee. "Yes?"

"I've got something for you…" the guy says, nibbling on his bottom lip a little shyly. Brian would have a comeback or two in place, except the guy, however hot, is wearing a crisp green shirt with a little plastic nametag that says: Marco, in bold Arial type. 

Slightly disheartened, Brian doubts this is just fortuitous flirtation.

He sits up a little in the booth as Marco reaches down into a small cart and pulls out a fair sized, narrow glass vase shaped like a circle. "What the fuck?" Brian says.

Marco smiles. "Have a nice day, sir."

"Wait a minute," Brian snaps, while Emmett and Michael promptly begin poking at the flowers and Debbie finishes up taking an order and makes a beeline to their table. "Who sent these?"

Marco raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I don't have a name. I'm just the delivery guy. They said to bring the flowers to the Liberty Diner at twelve fifty-three and deliver them to Mister Brian Kinney."

Brian narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Who's 'they'?"

"Uh," Marco says, backing up a step. "My bosses?" He taps his nametag as if anticipating Brian's next question. "I work at Liberty Florals just one block down."

"They're so pretty!" Emmett interrupts, and when Brian turns his glare on his friend, Marco takes the opportunity to flee. "Very tasteful!"

The vase is a little taller than Brian's hand from wrist to fingertip and inside, the flower stems are bent to curve perfectly along the rounded side of glass, the blooms clustering together at the top. There are seven two-toned tulips inside, along with some dark grass-like plant blending in among the stems. 

"Is there a packet of plant food or something?" Michael asks, looking around. "Hey, where's the guy? Usually they give you a little packet thing, to help the flowers stay fresh longer."

"I’m not keeping them!" Brian snaps.

"But they're _lovely_ ," Debbie says. "The color is so bright and they smell so beautiful! You don't want them?"

"No," Brian says, suspecting that everyone has completely lost their minds. Fucking spring, making everyone chipper and utterly _intolerable_. "You can take them," he pushes the jar over to Debbie.

"Thank-you," she says, a little breathy, like she's touched by the gesture and also a little overwhelmed by the beauty of the flowers or some shit. "I love flowers," she adds. "Are you sure you don't want them?" When he doesn't answer, she picks the vase up off the table and brings them to the back of the Diner, out of the way.

"A secret admirer?" Emmett teases. "How _mysterious_." Brian has to finish his lunch fifteen minutes early because he loses patience with all the questions and suppositions about the goddamned flowers.

___________________________________________

By the time Brian returns to Kinnetik, news of the tulips has already reached Ted, and Brian finds himself wondering if Emmett did the honors, or if he and Michael hosted a conference call with their wayward friend the moment Brian got up to leave.

"Tulips are one of my favorite flowers," Ted says, falling into step with Brian. "Especially the orangey-red ones. They're so quintessentially _spring_ , don't you think?"

"Theodore," Brian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I gave them to Debbie."

"Oh," Ted says, shoulders drooping. "Well, of course. Good choice."

"If you want flowers, why don't you go out and buy some?"

"I don't!" Ted lies. "I was just saying…"

"Please stop talking." Brian shuts the door to his office and spends the rest of the day ignoring everyone, pretending to be very busy working on a sales pitch for his latest account. The hyacinths are still sitting on Cynthia's desk and Brian can't help but wonder if Marco delivered those, as well.

"Beautiful green eyes, perfect bronze skin, adorably ruffled dark hair?" Cynthia describes when he asks.

"Yes."

"Then probably it was the same guy," she says. "Very hot, am I right?" 

"Yes."

She shrugs. "I don't see why you're so upset. It's a bit of eye candy delivering a bit of color to your life."

"The guy was told to deliver the tulips to the Diner, Cynthia. At twelve fifty-three in the afternoon."

"I swear I didn't tell anyone where you were going for lunch, or when," she says, holding her hands up. He's worked with her long enough that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "That is weird, though." Then she shrugs it off, "We'll keep an eye on it, but I mean, honestly Brian, you're a creature of habit. It's not like you vary your schedule all that much…"

"He didn't try to deliver the flowers here first?"

"No," she says. "There was no sign of any flower-bearing people, or else I would have chased them away, just like you asked." She smirks at him. "Could be worse, boss. At least he wasn't a singing telegram or something."

 

** Day Three: **

Wednesdays are interminably long. Always.

Carrying on his mother's tradition, the moment Michael settled down in his own Stepford house he started throwing dinners of his own. Mostly he ropes Brian into attending, though Wednesday dinners are never as big as Debbie's Sunday family dinners, which Brian has come to truly hate, sitting there with four couples, each of whom is intolerably happy and pleased with themselves. 

At least no one tries to set him up with anyone because, well, that's just not going to happen.

Still, Wednesday dinners with Ben and Michael? They have a tendency to turn into Wednesday lectures.

Sometimes Hunter is there and contributes his own two cents, which invariably leads to Brain feeling as if he has overpaid for the kid's opinion. _Every. Time._

He has a strategy this week though, that involves talking about his new car since neither Ben nor Hunter has seen yet. Hopefully, he can distract everyone long enough that dinner can begin and end quickly and with minimum fuss, and then he can slip out to Babylon and de-stress before heading home.

Or maybe he'll just crash at the loft.

He considers the merits of this plan as he unlocks the door and steps inside. These days the stark contemporary décor of the loft feels increasingly like emptiness rather than an aesthetic choice. At the house there are rich leather sofas and dark mahogany wood and deep colors. He also has an honest to god bar, which makes him feel perpetually classy, whether he's pouring himself a drink behind the counter or not.

Brian grabs a change of clothes from the closet and heads into the shower to wash away the day's stress. When he comes out a half hour later he's washed and dressed and feeling a little less pessimistic about the night's dinner. Not that he's looking forward to it, but still.

Pulling open the loft door, keys in hand, Brian is brought to an immediate and abrupt halt. "Good evening, Mister Kinney," Marco greets, brightly.

Brian considers slamming the door closed. "Marco," he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Delivery for you," Marco says, and instead of producing something small and discrete from the little trolley he had with him at the Diner the other day, Marco nods to a surprisingly tall arrangement sitting to the left of the door.

Brian looks at it. "Hell no."

"I was told to make certain you received this."

"That is not coming into my loft," Brian says, as Marco starts to wheel the sizeable arrangement to the door. Brian tries to slide the door closed, but Marco is surprisingly fast, even when pushing a ridiculously tall bunch of flowers.

Conceding, Brian gestures to the far corner by the Naked Guy. "Put them over there."

"Nice place," Marco says, looking around. "Have a nice evening, Mister Kinney," before he disappears back the way he came, leaving Brian standing in the center of his loft glaring at the remarkably tall flowers.

They're tropical, that much Brian can tell. He recognizes three birds of paradise, but he has no idea what any of the other flowers or vegetation might be. The leaves are all dark green and enormous, the flowers full and colorful: deep royal purples, vibrant oranges, impossible blues, sunshiny yellows and sensuous reds, all balanced in a deep cerulean sculpted clay pot. 

Brian likes the look of the flowers, brightening the stark greys and whites of the loft, but he can no longer ignore what has become plainly clear to him: he is being stalked by the Liberty Avenue Florist. Maybe the florist is being paid to stalk Brian, maybe the florist -- who Brian is confident he has never met -- has simply taken an interest for some undisclosed and entirely unknown reason.

The fact remains: once is an accident, and twice might well be a coincidence. But three times is a conspiracy, and Brian is determined to discover who, besides Marco and his employers, are involved.

 

** Day Four: **

There's a small wooden crate sitting on the front steps of the house when Brian pulls up. 

He unlocks the door, takes off his suit jacket and sets his briefcase down inside before he goes out and retrieves it, carrying it to the kitchen table and then going into the basement in order to retrieve something to pry the crate open with.

Inside, unsurprisingly, is a floral arrangement. 

Another stylish, contemporary design that he finds himself sort of liking for its simplicity: the vase is rounded, filled halfway with water, dark stones at the bottom. The flowers themselves are bound together, Brian has no idea what any of the flowers or greenery are, except that he suspects that's bamboo in there. At least three stalks. There's a cluster of deep yellow flowers with petals going around like a pinwheel, thick and waxy. The longer stalks are softer yellow, sort of like a backdrop to tie the arrangement together. They lie almost fully horizontal sticking out of the bowl.

The longer he stares at the flowers, the more Brian feels a bit like he's missing something important.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes he loads his recent delivery into his car and drives back into Pittsburgh, heading directly to Liberty Florals, which he spots almost the moment he turns down the side street because the shop front is painted bright melon-orange. Inside, there's greenery everywhere. It feels a bit like he's walked into a rainforest.

"Can I help you?" a voice asks, and Brian follows it to the back, where he almost walks straight into the counter. "Mister Kinney!" Marco greets.

"I thought you were just the delivery guy?"

"I do the deliveries, sure," Marco says with a shrug. "Sometimes I help with the phone and the till. What can I do for you?"

Brian sets his flowers on the counter. "I have a question about today's delivery."

Marco looks down at the flowers, then up at Brian. "We didn't have you down for a delivery today."

"These were sitting on the front step of my house when I got back from work."

"It wasn't us," Marco says with a shrug. Brian makes him look up the day's deliveries before he actually entertains the possibility that the flowers did not come from Liberty Florals. He has no idea what he's supposed to make of that. Two different people stalking him with flowers? It's unlikely.

"Well," Brian says. "Just tell me what type of flower this is," he gestures to the waxy yellow pinwheels.

Marco shrugs. "I've never seen them before. Let me get Peter, he's my boss. He's the flower guy."

Peter is tall and greying, with a large nose and sharp eyes and a huge smile, none of which seem as if they should all belong to the same person. "This is proof the delivery isn't from my shop," he says, peering at the flowers. "We don't keep these here."

"Why not?" Brian asks.

"They're a little too exotic, don't you think?" Peter asks. "People come for the old favorites: roses and lilies, or they come for something colorful: orchids or gerberas." Brian's flowers may be a deep yellow, but they are not particularly vibrant, there's an almost brownish quality to the color. "These are golden gardenias," Peter says. "I wonder what shop they came from…"

Brian isn't listening. He's staring at the yellow waxy pinwheels and remembering Justin's utterly vibrant sunshine smile. The one he saw and recognized for the first time that night in the parking garage and didn't see again for so long. Not the same smile, not as bright and breathtaking as it had been that night.

Not until Brian had proposed, and then Justin had started smiling like that again. Huge and blinding, and he just never seemed to stop: _"There's a Chinese legend that once your lover breathes them he'll love you forever."_

Their wedding flowers.

Or, what _would_ have been their wedding flowers.

Clearing his throat Brian says, "Thank-you," and then carries the flowers back out to the car. He sets them in the front seat.

A secret admirer, Emmett had said. Michael had called it stalking. Maybe it was a little of both, because who else would know him well enough to know where to send the flowers, and when: his work, the Diner, the loft, the house. Cynthia was right; he was a creature of habit. But there weren't a lot of people who could consistently predict him. 

Who else would know the significance of the gardenias? Other than Emmett.

Hastily, Brian climbs back out of his car, wending his way through to the back of the florist's. "Marco? I need to buy some flowers."

Kinnetik is closed for the day, but the garish hyacinths are still sitting on Cynthia's desk. He swaps them for what Marco had called his 'specialty sorbet floral arrangement' of orange roses and bright purple blooms. She'll notice, Brian's certain of it, but she won't comment.

His next stop is Debbie's, where Horvath opens the door and looks at him skeptically. "I'm flattered, son, but I'm more than happy with the woman I've got."

Brian can remember a time when Horvath was uncomfortable with that sort of innuendo. He sticks his tongue in his cheek, "They're not for you," he says. "Is Debbie in?"

Horvath, still looking skeptical asks, "Should I be worried?"

"What's going on?" Debbie calls from inside the house, walking up and then muscling Carl out of the way as she repeats, "What's going on?" her tone suggesting that she suspects it just may be the end of the world.

Brian feels a bit foolish now, standing on her front step with a huge arrangement of tulips and ribbon. But she's got his flowers in there. Flowers that Justin sent, though God only knows why, and he sort of wants them back. 

He'd prefer to avoid any drama so…

"Do you still have those flowers that came for me at the Diner?"

"Well, sure I do," she says.

"Swap you?" Brian holds out the tulips and waits. 

She frowns at him, at the flowers, clearly sifting through a myriad of questions none of which she can determine whether to ask or not. "I'll get them," she says, after a moment. "You want to come in?"

Brian waits on the front step, his hands in his pockets as she retreats inside, his offering held in both hands. When she comes back, she's carrying his tulipsa: the squat rounded bowl, the familiar burst of color. "What happened?" she asks, her voice softer.

Mother's intuition, Brian figures she probably has a pretty good idea already. For all that she prefers the direct and unsubtle approach, Debbie is remarkably good at completing elaborate jigsaws with only a few pieces in her possession. 

"Last minute regrets," he says with a shrug, accepting the flowers and turning toward the car.

"You take care of those, you hear?" she says. They both know she doesn't really mean the flowers.

He puts them in the backseat, beside the hyacinths. The new-car smell he's been cherishing all week slowly being overwritten.

** Day Five: **

There are orchids on the roof of his brand new car when he comes out of work. 

He spends the length of time it takes him to walk from the front steps of Kinnetik to his car fuming at the potential for scratches because of a bunch of towering, purple and white _orchids_ , which Brian considers just about the most heterosexual flower ever, after _roses_.

When he reaches up to carefully remove the flowers, out there for _anyone_ to see, and _impossible_ to miss considering how tall the vase is even without the giant flowers sticking up out of it, he realizes that there is, in fact, an honest-to-god _tea-cozy_ on his car. 

For just one moment the tea-cozy has more of his attention than the flowers.

It has a stitched rabbit holding a fucking _egg_ on it. It's also disturbingly pastel and, come to think of it, Brian finds it familiar. The only place that he could have possibly come across something so hideous is Deb's and the more he looks at it, the more he thinks that's exactly where the ugly thing originated from.

Justin's stealing shit from Deb now?

Or wait, Brian actually remembers when Debbie had given this to Justin, a little homemade Easter basket filled with chocolate and cheap cooking utensils and things for his kitchen: "Happy Easter, Sunshine!" she had said, and given the young blond a big hug.

That had been the Sunday dinner after Justin had moved to his own apartment. That had been, come to think of it, one of the most awkward family dinners that Brian could ever remember having, because Mikey had been in a mood and refused to talk directly to Brian, and Justin had put his WASP training into over-drive, being so damned polite that Brian had wanted to leave early. 

He hadn't, of course, because he had wanted to make a point, and also because he missed sitting down to dinner with Justin. Debbie had called Justin aside when dinner was over to give him his gift, and Brian had lurked around and pretended that no one could see where his attention was directed, and Michael and Ben had driven Justin home.

It's depressing, remembering all of it. So much wasted time, and if that's what Justin is saying with all of these flowers then… then really, he should have just picked up the phone and called. Except that's not something they do. Not really.

There are sporadic phone calls, but really it never feels like enough. Leaves Brian feeling miserable and more alone than ever, and somehow Justin's daily phone calls: "It's _great_ here!" and, "I've found this shitty little place that gets _amazing_ light and I've been painting like _crazy_ " and "God, Brian, I miss you so much. The men here are incredibly hot, you'd love it" trickled off. Now most of the calls are goal oriented: "I have a show. Just a few pieces and there's, like, five other artists or something, if you can't make it, it's not really a big thing…"

For a moment, Brian considers pulling his cellphone out of his pocket, pretending to be all serious and concerned, "I'm being stalked by Liberty Avenue's only florist. I'm getting Carl to look into it…" or maybe, "Orchids? Seriously?" but he's concerned that whatever he says, it will come out sounding more like: "Come home, I miss you" and Brian refuses to be the thing that gets in the way of Justin living his life. He's done being the thing that always gets in the way of Justin getting what he wants.

 

** Day Six: **

The steady 'thumpa thumpa' of Babylon's beat does, indeed, go on, but on the nights when Brian stops by the club he spends the majority of his time in his office. There is a lot that goes into the care and maintenance of a truly exceptional nightclub.

Not that Brian has given up tricking because, well, a man needs to eat, but he's replaced late night quickies in the backroom with the comfort and glitz of his private office, which means the only time he really spends out in the club is when Michael or the Gang is present.

"Ah, he descends to mingle with us lowly mortals," Emmett greets.

"Brian!" Michael wraps him in an enthusiastic hug, as if they haven't seen each other in _days_. "Any more developments with your secret admirer?" he asks, and then looks a little concerned as he adds, "Are you okay?"

Brian snorts. "I'm _fine._ " Not that there would be much Michael could do if his so-called 'secret admirer' were actually a psycho stalker. It's the thought that counts, he supposes. "Anyway, I'm fairly certain I know exactly who's behind the flowers."

"Who?" Michael and Emmett say at precisely the same moment. The question ends up being posed to Brian's back because he's walking out onto the dance floor.

He knows who is behind the flowers, but that doesn't mean he knows what the flowers are supposed to _mean_. For a fleeting moment he'd considered that there was some hidden message encoded in the choice of flowers. Victorian flower-language, or whatever it was called. 

A quick Google search had informed him that hyacinth meant 'constancy', and red tulips were supposedly a declaration of love, but the bird of paradise was 'freedom' and 'magnificence' and how the fuck was he supposed to make sense out of that? Justin sincerely loved him but was doing beyond well in New York and had no intention of ever coming home? No, thank-you. 

Of course, Brian could have put an end to the constant torment by picking up the phone and simply _calling_ , but the truth was, he was afraid of what he might be told. Easier if Justin simply didn't return, Brian was prepared for that. Really, he was. He had, at least, been anticipating it for some time.

Anyway, the real question was: why _flowers_?

That wasn't something they did. Ever. 

Brian had never given Justin flowers. He never received them, either. 

He was a man, he was gay, he wasn't _Emmett Honeycutt_ , and he didn't _do_ flowers, so why, after a year of short, awkward phone conversations that slowly tapered in regularity, of missed meetings and mailed Christmas gifts, was Justin suddenly communicating with him through plant life? 

Since constantly turning the question over again and again for the better part of the week hasn't gotten him anywhere, Brian turns to distraction, which he finds on the dance floor as his presence instantly attracts the attention of two shirtless, well-formed and reasonably attractive men. They plaster themselves against him and together they fall into a rhythm.

Brian doesn't bring tricks home. Not to the house, anyway. But he is seriously considering taking these two back to the loft when someone pushes their way up and the guy who had been grinding up along Brian's back suddenly stops moving and says, "Wow, those are pretty."

Brian's shaking his head even before he turns around and, sure enough, there's Marco, standing there a little awkwardly in his faded blue jeans and bright red raincoat dotted with water. Obviously, the weather continues to be miserable. Brian wishes he had parked somewhere closer to the club, because he didn't bring in his jackert.

"Hey," Marco says.

Brian raises an eyebrow. "I hope you're getting paid overtime for this delivery."

Marco laughs. "Don't worry about it." He holds out a massive bouquet of sunflowers, no greenery or baby's breath, just bright yellowy-orange vibrant flowers with dark brown centers, Brian doesn't know how many. Twenty, at least. The stems have been left long, tied with twine, simple and unpretentious.

Sunflowers.

There's no card, Brian knows better than to look for one. Marco is smiling wide enough to show off his shiny white teeth. He shrugs. "Have a nice night."

"Yeah," Brian says. "Thanks, Marco."

He looks back at the flowers as Marco disappears into the crowd. "Oh, I _love_ sunflowers," one of the guys who has been dancing with Brian says. "That's so sweet, that someone sent them to you. Who are they from?"

Brian almost jerks the flowers away when the other guy leans forward to smell them. He tries to come up with an answer: they're from a friend, someone I used to know, a kid who followed me home one night, the guy I fucked more than once, my ex, my prince, my ex-fiancé. 

To some extent or another, each of those answers would be true.

"Excuse me," he says, instead, and turns on his heel and walks out of the club.

The flowers go on the front passenger seat of his shiny new Mercedes and Brian drives home.

 

** Day Seven: **

Every time Brian pulls up the drive to the house -- _every_ time -- he hears Justin's voice echoing out of memory: _"Britin",_ said with that hint of triumph, that giddy-pleased tone that had been ever-present in Justin's voice since the moment he had realized that Brian had absolutely meant it when he stood there and proposed.

The lights are on, but that has long-since stopped filling Brian with tricky false-hope: maybe he came back. Maybe the house isn't empty. The house is always empty, and that's okay, because they both agreed this was for the best. 

It's only time.

What Deb and Mikey and the others don't get is that Brian can wait like this because he realized a long time ago: he's never going to be rid of Justin Taylor. For all that they have been in a seemingly perpetual loop of on-again off-again, it hasn't been as simple as that. Each time they get back together, despite what everyone likes to think, they weren't picking up where'd they'd left off.

They started up again someplace new.

Maybe that place was a little closer to what Justin had been pushing for from the start, and Brian had been resisting like nothing else since he was old enough to understand that relationships were about give-give-give and take-take-take. For all that Brian thought he'd been schooling Justin on being the best homosexual possible Justin, ever the insidious, crafty and persistent little shit that he was, had a few lessons of his own for Brian to learn.

It might have taken a while, but what counts is that he got there eventually, right?

This time their separation had felt different.

Like maybe what Brian had to offer was too little and too late. Like maybe Justin had wised-up, or was about to wise-up, once enough distance and time got between them. One year. Was that enough time?

Pulling the car into the garage, Brian makes his way to the front door. He tosses is keys on the hall table, drapes his jacket over the banister and flicks off the house lights.

There is a soft, orangey-warm glow emanating from somewhere upstairs. That's the first thing he notices.

The second thing is a trail of rose petals, scattered on the floor by the front door and leading up the stairs.

Briefly, standing in the front hall and staring at the flower petals on his floor, Brian considers grabbing his keys and high-tailing it to the 'vette and driving off into the sunset.

It's a fleeting thought, gone before it fully takes shape and he actually laughs at himself, at the old impulse to run-run-run and go-go-go and never stop, not for anyone.

He climbs the stairs slowly because he takes pleasure in the anticipation, the building nervous-flicker of hope and joy and total fucking terror. What if it's not Justin? What if Justin is lying in bed naked and loudly proclaims that he's coming home and giving up on his art career to be the perfect house-husband?

Brian isn't certain he has the strength of will to push Justin out the door again, even if it's for the blond's own good.

There's a night-light plugged into the hallway socket at the top of the stairs, another further down the hall on the left, the petals further indicating that this is the direction in which he should walk. So he does. 

He walks right up to his bedroom door and pushes it open cautiously.

Never let it be said that Justin Taylor ever does anything by halves.

There is a fire burning in the bedroom fireplace and candles and more rose petals and, there on the bed, Justin himself, completely naked and also, apparently, completely asleep.

Brian snickers, kicks off his shoes and slips his shirt off his shoulders and climbs onto the bed. "Hey," he whispers, jostling the bed enough to wake the younger man.

"Shh," Justin says, eyes still closed, still so obviously fast asleep. "'m sleeping."

"I thought you were supposed to be seducing me?"

"Hm," Justin says, twitches his nose a little, resettles, and goes back to breathing deep and rhythmically.

Brian counts to ten in his mind. When he reaches one, Justin's eyes pop open. "Brian?" he asks, blinking and leaning up a little. "Shit," he says as he looks around, notes the candles and the fire.

"I'd like to point out that falling asleep surrounded by all these lit candles is a serious fire hazard." Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek and tries not to grin like an idiot. 

Justin's blue eyes immediately narrow. "Fuck you. Don't lecture me on irresponsible behavior, you hypocrite."

"I've never lit over a dozen candles and then taken a nap."

"Well, maybe if you ever _did_ light over a dozen candles you'd know that the effect is very soothing and peaceful. Especially after the week I've had!" Justin snaps. "Shit," he says, rubbing his eyes. "This isn't how I wanted this whole thing to go."

Brian tips his head to the side. "I can go out and then come in again."

"No, that's alright," Justin says, magnanimously. "You're already here, and you're already naked. That's half the battle."

"Since when is getting me naked a battle?"

Rolling his eyes, Justin shifts around so he can drape himself atop Brian's naked chest. Brian wholeheartedly approves of this development. "It's a figure of speech," Justin says, and then stops talking because he's too busy pressing his lips against Brian's, pushing his tongue inside Brian's mouth.

It's a homecoming. That's what the kiss feels like. Like something that was missing is resettling back in its proper place. The thought makes Brian smile because it's true on so many levels.

"You know, for a while there I started wondering if you were trying to set me up with Marco," Brian says when they break apart.

Justin scrunches his nose, confused. "Marco?"

"The hot, very Italian flower delivery guy who you paid to stalk me through the streets of Pittsburgh?"

"Oh, him. I wasn’t too worried, seeing as he’s totally straight." Justin idly pats a hand against Brian's sternum, smiling. "The plan was to swoop in and seduce you myself, but there were some last minute things I had to do in New York, and then once I flew into Pittsburgh my _mom_ insisted on spending some time with me and …" he trails off, biting his lip a little nervously.

"What?" Brian prompts.

"To be honest," Justin says, and then trails off again. With a huff, the younger man shifts until he half sitting up in bed, leaning over Brian. "It's been a while since we talked, and I wasn't sure I could just show up on your doorstep and throw my hands in the air and says, 'ta da' and have you actually let me in. I thought, maybe I needed to remind you that I'm still me, you know? That I still know you better than anyone, and I still think you're worth stalking."

"Justin," Brian says, entirely seriously, noting the blue eyes that meet his gaze, wide and vulnerable. "If you show up on my doorstep and throw your hands in the air and say 'ta da' or whatever the fuck else, I will _always_ let you." Then, because he's still Brian fucking Kinney, he can't help but add, "So long as you're naked."

At least it makes Justin smile and roll his eyes and laugh.

"Anyway," Brian continues. "What the fuck do the flowers have to do with anything? I hate flowers. Do you have any idea the shit I've been through this week? The gossip and snark I've been subjected to because of your little deliveries? Not to mention, Ted is _still_ moping because nobody has ever sent _him_ any flowers."

"You suffer horribly, don’t you, Grumpy?” Justin, the little bastard, is entirely unsympathetic to Brian’s ordeal. “I sent you flowers because it's spring and _everyone_ loves flowers…"

"Except you," Brian interrupts. "Because you're fucking allergic to _everything_."

"Not these," Justin says proudly, pointing to the golden gardenias that Brian had placed on the night table on his side of the bed. "I can't believe you didn't just give them all away. To be honest, I sort of thought you might." That shy, vulnerable look is back on Justin's face, like he can’t believe he actually stalked Brian with flowers.

Immediately, Brian decides to never mention that he did in fact, if only temporarily, give away two of his floral arrangements. It doesn’t count, because that was before he was certain who they were even from. "Well, at first I thought I was being stalked by some random person with atrocious taste in floral arrangements…"

'"Oh, fuck you!"

Brian endures the swat that lands right across his left nipple, wincing a little as he gently grabs Justin's hand. "But then I figured out who was really stalking me with hideous plant life…"

"You're such a dick, Brian," Justin says making another half-hearted attempt at a swat. "This was supposed to be romantic, me coming home and surprising you and announcing that I'm ready to come back, that I've made contacts and I can work out of Pittsburgh so long as I fly out for my shows, and I'm ready to be with you. Although, I don't think I'm actually ready to get married yet because, I know it'll sound crazy, but it feels like I'd be rushing into it and…"

Brian cuts him off with a kiss because he thinks that if he doesn't do something to stop him, Justin will just keep talking and Brian needs a moment. The kiss deepens automatically, because they have never been able to resist each other, not really. Justin's words are finally catching up to Brian, finally sinking in, and the voice in his head sounds suspiciously like Debbie as it declares: "Fuckin' _finally_!"

“Hey,” Brian says, his has slipping into Justin’s hair, framing either side of the younger man’s face. “You’re moving back to Pittsburgh?”

Justin looks a little uncertain, a little leery. “New York was this big thing for you, Brian. I remember how much it meant to you to get there.” Brian’s gaze drops for a moment to his lover’s mouth as Justin licks his lips. “It doesn’t mean the same thing for me. It didn’t matter if it was Pittsburgh or Los Angeles or New York, I just wanted to know that I could do it, that I could go off on my own and _make it_ as an artist.” 

He shrugs, smirks and says, “Ta da. I kind of feel like it should have maybe been harder, but then I think of everything I went through to get here and I’ve decided that it was hard enough. And no, please don’t make some kind of crude reference. The point is, I can actually build my art career from here, now.”

Brian’s just happy to notice that Justin is smiling again, that he’s shifted so that the line of his naked body is pressed perfectly along Brian’s, and they still fit together. Perfectly.

“You don’t need to convince me to take you back,” Brian says. “I already told you, this is your home.”

“I know. It’s only time. I just didn’t want to make assumptions. A lot has changed for both us and I wanted to be absolutely certain this was still something we both wanted.”

“Stop trying to get me to propose again.”

“I _told_ you, Brian…”

Smirking, Brian wraps his hands around Justin’s back and rolls, pinning the slighter man beneath him. “I know, it’s too soon. You feel like it’d be rushing.”

“ _Thank_ -you,” Justin says, exasperated. “Now that this whole romantic moment is thoroughly ruined…”

“I’m not the one who fell asleep.”

Justin is not impressed by the teasing, or by the way Brian is pointedly grinding their cocks together. “Whatever.”

Ghosting his lips along the shell of Justin’s ear, Brian promises, “The romance can be resuscitated…”

“Hm,” Justin says, sounding mildly intrigued and, Brian likes to think, also a little hopeful. “Do you think so?”

“Yes,” Brian says, still keeping his voice low, breathy puffs of heated air across his lover’s pale skin. “After I fuck you _all night_.”

Justin’s hands fly up and cover his face, adorably embarrassed. That line still has the power to make Justin instantly hard, never mind that he’s not even seventeen anymore. 

From behind the shield of his hands, Justin says, “I can’t believe you put those flowers by the bed.”

“Where else would I put them?” Brian asks, genuinely baffled. “You know, there’s a Chinese legend about those flowers…”

Justin moves his hands away from his face, grinning wide and bright light the sunflowers Brian put in the foyer, his fingers tangling in Brian’s hair as he tugs, bringing their faces closer together. Still smiling, Justin says, “Shut up and fuck me. I’ve been missing you for an entire year.”

Brian snickers. “Ever the romantic.”


End file.
